


the ocean and the coast

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: I still get sad about it, M/M, shrug emoji, the last of valencia angst maybe???????, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 01:12:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7019188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When is football not the most important thing in the world? When it becomes an excuse to hear your voice, to say your name, to hold your hand across oceans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the ocean and the coast

**Author's Note:**

> this was a wip before That happened so it might be a lil outdated?? idk  
> all lyrics from [Enemies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uZ58I25lWWA) by the Spring Standards

 

i.

_lover, you're wrong_  
_i'm not that strong_

 

It's the sixth interview he's done in two weeks and it comes as the third question. Jamie swallows a grin that nobody sees. Eight hundred miles away and he's still in the shadow of Gary fucking Neville. _What do you think of your ex-partner's move to Valencia?_ the interviewer says, smiles, and Jamie looks back pleasantly enough (tries not to think about _ex-_ ).

He's come up with three standard things to say:

       1. Management and punditry are very different jobs   
       2. It would be nice to have him back.   
       3. He will be fine.

The first is the easiest for people to ignore. "Don't want Neville back as a pundit" tweets surface soon enough and build like a wave until Jamie stops looking at his notifications. The second is a truth he pretends to lie about. It's always the hardest balancing act, this point, the sweet spot of like to without hinting at love to. (Without hinting at love.) Jamie almost stumbles once or twice, almost allows his voice to slip and his eyes to light up with a wistfulness unbecoming for co-workers.

The third is as much for himself as it is for the magazines. It's what he says to the television Sunday afternoons and Thursday nights, whispers in the kitchen when he sees a wooden spoon and is reminded of a youtube video to which he doesn't even belong. Thinks, over and over again, as he stares at the ceiling of his bedroom and the peeling paint (and not how cold a bed is alone).

He's realised something as of late: it doesn't work.

After the first loss he sent a text that said _it'll be all right_ , not expecting a reply and not getting one. He'd done it for the next game, and the next, and somewhere in the middle he'd just stopped. Instead he watches the press conferences week-in week-out, waiting for a smile to crack and dreading the gaunt sleeplessness he knows he'll see instead.

To be fair to Gary, he's brave about it. Grits his teeth and plows through the conferences and leaves to carry on, not that Jamie would have expected anything different. Most people buy it and some people think it's arrogance. Most people wouldn't notice the extra ring under his eyes or the way his left thumb won't stop twitching. But Jamie isn't most people (when, he wonders, did he stop).

And still the words roll around in his mind, like a fire refusing to go out, burning stubbornly while the house comes down around it. Jamie keeps on giving interviews and doesn't leave the last out, even as three terrible months stretch to four. He'll be all right. He'll be fine.

(No, he won't, but to pretend is to protect him, and this is the only way Jamie knows how.)

 

ii.

 _You're the one I'm ignoring 'cause I need you the most_ _  
_ _Heaven help us if we get too close_

 

So they stay.

Jamie wakes up at seven, eats breakfast, goes to the studio if there's work and goes to the pub if there isn't. Sometimes he goes down to Melwood when it begins to hurt too much, to remind himself that his heart is here and not in Valencia, and certainly not in Manchester, not in the hands and eyes and laugh of a boy. In Liverpool the grass is green and Jordan passes the ball perfectly and Daniel makes the back of the net whisper. And so Jamie tells himself that this is all he needs.

(But - )

But his most searched on twitter reads 'from:gnev2 @carra23' and he checks this every day at six fifty-five (when he's not yet awake and it doesn't count), lingering on _actually alright_ longer than he should before clicking the tiny icon with the wrong crest and finding nothing since January 8. It's as quiet as his phone, as quiet as his footsteps when he turns down drinks with Ed and walks away because there isn't a point.

He thinks about calling almost every day, but always freezes with his thumb hovering just above the button. It isn't supposed to be like this. None of it is supposed to be like this. He should be calling Stevie, not a Manc.

Stevie says, "did you ever see that video of Beckham talking about United and how he couldn't watch them for two years?"

Jamie raises an eyebrow. "No."

"Well." Stevie is quiet, like he doesn't know how to explain. "People try to forget things for a reason."

Jamie watches the video that night. He wonders if when Beckham talks about United he's actually talking about something else, and if _it was difficult to leave_ has a name attached to the end, unspoken and unsaid the same way Jamie unspeaks and unsays.

The next day he doesn't check twitter, he doesn't leave his thumb hovering over the button. He goes to Anfield and sits in the square plastic seats and drowns himself in the crisp cold air, forgetting things for a reason.

(So they stay.)

 

iii. 

_So I'm clutching like hell to each word that you say_ _  
Like a flag to its mast in a hurricane_

When the call finally comes, it's about football. Gary doesn't say hello, doesn't give him a moment to think before he says, "what d'you know about Paco?"

Jamie swallows the words on his tongue (do you remember what my name felt like between your fingers) and learns how to be grateful. "Good man," he says, suddenly aware of how _Scouse_ he sounds, his letters all curled up and gnarled and nothing at all like the lilt of Negredo. "Thinking of bringing him in?"

"Yeah." Gary pauses and Jamie can imagine him rubbing the back of his neck. "I reckon he'd be a bridge of sorts. Between me and the - fans."

The way he says the word _fans_ sends something sticky down Jamie's throat, settling like a lump of coal in his stomach. There are scenarios he does not want to think about ( _Gary Neville Liverpool manager loses seventh game in a row_ ) and he studiously pushes them aside. "Sounds good," he agrees instead, watching his fingers flex and unflex, the knuckles pale. "He's got a head for football. Won't let you down."

"What d'you think of - " Gary rattles off players then and Jamie goes through them one by one, passing three-word judgements and stopping for a quick argument here and there. It's comforting in its familiarity, reminiscent of the way they used to bounce back-and-forth before Monday nights, feelings wrapped in football their motto. Gary reaches the end of the list and says, "thank you."

"You're welcome," Jamie replies, almost amused by the absurd formality. Then, "Gary?"

"Yeah?"

He sounds so much older and so much more tired that it wrenches Jamie to a halt. He takes a second to breathe before repeating, "Gary," this time not a question, just a boy.

Gary hangs up without saying goodbye. It's only later, sat in the living room watching Match of the Day, that Jamie realises something: Gary went through the list of players far too fast to be making notes. Which means either he doesn't think much of Jamie's opinions, or he called for the same reason Jamie wanted to be called. (When is football not the most important thing in the world? When it becomes an excuse to hear your voice, to say your name, to hold your hand across oceans.)

 

iv.

_Or are we just friends who let touching hands  
linger a little too long? _

 

It takes nine words to break him. ( _Jamie, have you been in touch with Gary Neville?_ )

It comes out of the blue, off the back of a chat about Benteke that's left hanging as they cleave straight into him with a knife as sharp as memories. He's only on the phone but his mouth falls open slightly, the way people's mouths did in the movies when they'd just been shot. Three agonising seconds go by and he's painfully aware of how revealing they are, that silence, as if it couldn't be louder if he screamed it to the world.

This is what he says:

"A little bit. A little bit. Not too much, he's obviously got a lot more on his plate than (pause) keeping in touch with me, but (pause) now and again after certain games (pause) - "

This is not what he says:

"A little bit. A little bit. Not  enough, never enough and I miss the way he holds his pen and I miss watching him eat Chinese after a bad game and I miss sitting on the sofa next to him saying nothing just feeling him beside me and I miss him him him - "

This is not what he thinks either because it's far too melodramatic (maudlin/sentimental/stupid), and that sort of thing is best left to Stevie and Xabi. So he pretends not to have paused and that his breath didn't rush out at one go when he said Gary's name.

(But - )

But the thing is he knows he's pretending, and the thing is he doesn't know if Gary's pretending too. If it really was just the once and when he said _I spoke to Jamie Carragher, a friend of mine_ he really did just mean _friend_. If strings had come attached and now they had been pulled back, and it had never been anything but good banter, and there was nothing, really, else on Gary's plate.

It's insecurity. It's weakness. Jamie has never hated himself as much as he has then.

He wonders if Gary was listening and figures that he wouldn't have - managers in Spain have no time for British radio shows. Just before dinner his phone beeps twice. The first is from Scholes and it reads _you're welcome._  Frowning, Jamie scrolls down to the second and reads _I have a separate plate for you_.

He's startled into a laugh then settles into a quiet, contented hum as he pockets his phone, reaching for the frying pan instead. The crackle of the fire seems almost to speak (like ticket stubs in a wallet or the cracked stump of an old tree, murmuring to everyone who would listen: it was real, it was real).

 

v.

_I'm adrift in the ocean and you are the coast_

 

Barcelona is -

(wrong; you're here to watch Messi/Suarez/Neymar, not the dugout -)

three in the morning when Jamie's almost nodding off until a toe nudges his foot and a tired voice says, "Jamie."

Jamie scrambles up from where he's sat on the floor and looks at Gary, wondering whether to go with excuse (I was just passing by) or adamance (about time you got back, you little shit). In the end he says nothing, the way Gary's accent drops the _i_ still lingering in his head.

"Jamie," Gary says again, like he's papering up the cracks with his name.

Jamie follows him into the room, still not saying a word. He remembers the skinny right-back when Manchester United beat Nottingham Forest 8-1 seventeen years ago. He remembers watching the red shirts in this same stadium on the telly.

"Jamie," Gary says one last time, almost like a sigh, like the world is ending and all he can do is close his eyes.

Jamie answers. Not with words (what can you say?) but with his arms, that wrap themselves around Gary's shoulders and pull him close, thumbs flicking over the sharp corners of the bones beneath his suit. He kisses him once, softly, brushing his lips against Gary's sunburnt cheek. Gary melts into him. Jamie catches his head with his shoulder and rocks (and _rocks_ ).

 

They sit like that for ages until Gary finally falls asleep, his breath light and the crease gone from his face. Jamie holds his hand and looks out the window. Across the horizon, the sun is rising.

  


 

**Author's Note:**

> \- im sorry...i wish it was better...but it's past midnight and i'm tired *stabs the ending upsetly*  
> \- Becks video is [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LFhoEWGQ9B0)  
> \- Jamie's talksport interview is [here](http://talksport.com/football/credit-him-having-balls-take-job-jamie-carragher-offers-backing-under-fire-valencia-boss) \- the abrupt gaz part starts at 9:20 (he really does pause for three seconds before replying..........my heart hurt) (also he does sort of sigh when he said Gary's name at 9:57.........again my heart hurt)  
> \- Thanks for reading / commenting / kudosing in advance <3


End file.
